


Saekano: How to Adapt an Anime for America (HA3)

by eowobble



Category: Saenai Heroine no Sodatekata, 冴えない彼女の育てかた | Saekano | How to Raise a Boring Girlfriend (Anime)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-14
Updated: 2019-09-14
Packaged: 2020-10-18 13:55:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20640275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eowobble/pseuds/eowobble
Summary: A humble experiment to see if it's possible to adapt "Saenai Heroine no Sodatekata" ("Saekano: How to Raise a Boring Girlfriend") for an American audience.  Reddit also overwhelmingly dumped on my idea so that just motivated me even more.





	1. Introduction

Hi Everyone! This is the first work of fan fiction I've ever attempted. Please be kind. : )

The basic idea for this fan fiction started with [a Reddit question I'd posted to /r/anime last week](https://www.reddit.com/r/anime/comments/d2k8f5/possible_to_adapt_harem_anime_for_american/). I'd just finished watching [both seasons of _Saekano_ on Amazon Prime](https://www.amazon.com/gp/video/detail/B06XYJQPWW) and had been so moved that I immediately felt the compulsion to try adapting it for Americanization. When I started thinking through the project though, my initial enthusiasm was quickly dampened by doubts whether such an "Americanization effort" was even possible. And the responses I'd received on my Reddit post were overwhelmingly negative. At its lowest, I believe the question had been downvoted all the way down to 23%.

Nevertheless, in true American and House of Hufflepuff fashion, I remained undeterred by the torrent of doubt from others. I am admittedly not thoroughly versed in the anime/manga world. But I feel this is worth at least a try. Even if it is doomed to failure, I was so touched by the characters and story of _Saekano_ that I feel it's worth trying to share with the wider world.

What follows is an experiment: It's an attempt to adapt _Saekano_ into a project that could possibly succeed in America. Everyone likely harbors a different opinion of what that means so I'll just leave it to readers to see for themselves. I will say though, that for me, that meant writing something that was rated **"'E' for Everyone."** Any feedback is welcome! I've started with one chapter (~1,000 words). Depending on what folks think, I'll then consider whether or not to continue.

Thank you in advance for your time and attention! ありがとうございました!

** _\---_ **

**_Edit:_** It just occurred to me that though my fan fiction is "E for Everyone," there are links within the story that point to material which feature profanity. Just FYI.


	2. Inspiration Upon a Hill - A Memory of Autumn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unexpected inspiration strikes from atop a hill one autumn afternoon and Tomas Alton receives a new assignment at the small publishing agency that he works at. It is the opportunity of a lifetime and the very project that Tom has dreamed about ever since childhood. But to even get the project off the ground, Tom will need to convince two skeptical colleagues who are reluctant to sign on because of their wholly unfounded, Anglocentric, and hypocritical prejudices.

They say life is a series of moments. Strung together by the inexorable march of time. Have enough moments, and you form an experience. And if you're lucky enough to make a meaningful one, you win a memory.

For as long as humans have walked the earth, there has existed never-ending fascination with the source of human creativity and imagination. From where does inspiration spring? Is it the Voice of God whispering and conspiring with the muses? Is that how a single man revitalized not one but _two_ of the utmost important Science Fiction film franchises in human history? And [was it _really_ easier to train oil drillers to be astronauts rather than vice versa](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7c1Ijuny9-w&t=285s)? Answers to these questions dangle over the chasm of epistemological impossibility but on this particular Sunday afternoon as Thomas Stein walked alone in Central Park, deeply lost in profound thought, he stumbled upon a moment that could've been only summoned by divine command.

Late autumn had descended on New York like _Episode 7_, late but still better than never, and had still arrived to a hero's welcome, cheered by all involved. And in that single moment, as a slight October breeze stirred and the last of a few stubborn leaves fell, as the orange sun set behind the city skyline, framed by maple trees and foliage on either side, Tom looked up and saw a single young woman standing alone atop the hill.

She stood svelte and lithe in a white sundress, her chestnut brown hair mussed by the sudden gust. She was reaching for something elusive, just beyond her grasp-- and before Tom knew it, a white beret had rolled to his feet.

On this Sunday afternoon, in the waning days of fall, by virtue of no particular action of his own, and for no reason remotely comprehensible, Tomas Stein won a memory.

~~~

As the eight o'clock bell rung that morning at the office, the underpaid and overworked employees of Yoshito, Swann, and Sonoko shuffled from the company breakroom to their small cubicles opposite of the long hall. Among their number of groggy employees migrating to their designated indentured cubicles of servitude was one Tomas Alton. If one wished to be purely anthropological about it, after graduating from university, Tom had noticed that women largely self-sorted into two categories with regards to professional life: The first group were those who sharply dressed in pantsuits and donned crisp, white blouses, with tidy and well-maintained haircuts, earrings, and eyeshadow. While no one appeared rich (it was publishing, after all), it was clear these women cared about appearances and believed that they existed in some perpetual competition whereby value was somehow conferred by some outdated and arbitrary, 19th century notion of beauty.

And then there was the second category: Women who rolled in five minutes before the bell, disheveled, wearing smudged glasses, in green tracksuits.

Comparatively, Tom himself was dressed appropriately-- thick, black-framed glasses, brown dress slacks (pleated), and a gingham long-sleeved polo (unwrinkled). But like a small, frightened animal cognizant that he was of an endangered species, Tom needed only to look around to remind himself that the publishing industry remained one of the last bastions of the matriarchal power structure in the modern world. Nevertheless, in the grand scheme, considering the country currently wallowed amidst the biggest economic downturn since the Dustbowl of the 1930s, Tom was grateful for a job at all.

"Hey! Diversity hire!"

Tom's head whipped around, reflexively.

"Yeah, you! Whatever-your-name. Get in here!"

Tom swallowed. It was the Great Matriarch, Ms. Machida Sonoko-San. One of the company partners who was temporarily on loan from Tokyo to set up this nascent subsidiary in New York. As the junior-most partner at the firm, Ms. Sonoko-San had been shipped over from the Empire of the Rising Sun to the land of cheeseburgers and guns with the sole mission of helping Yoshito-San's publishing firm gain a foothold in the American market.

Tom walked over and tentatively entered Ms. Sonoko-San's corner office, wearily aware that more than a few sets of eyes quizzically followed his summoning. Tom had never approached a ten-yard radius of the office before and quickly realized two things about Ms. Sonoko-San upon entering: 1) She was surprisingly and strikingly young, maybe only a few years over the right side of thirty, at most. (Only a few years older than himself.); and 2) While she was dressed as a Category 1-Female, her office was a complete disaster! (Maybe human beings in all of their infinite complexity could not be so easily classified?) Papers were strewn over every available surface and Pocky stick boxes littered the floor. The office itself was large with sweeping views of the Hudson River but it didn't really matter because clothing hung from hangers obscuring most of the floor-to-ceiling windows and… _were those undergarments behind the door?_

"Have a seat, sorry, what's your name again?"

Tomas's eyes snapped back to attention. _Good god, _**_focus, man_**_._ He tried to clear some space on the sofa by gingerly moving a pile of Japanese comic books to the floor. "Uh, Tomas Stein, Ms. Sonoko-San. A pleasure to meet you."

"Ah, Tomoya-Kun, very well."

They sat for a moment, opposite of each other as Ms. Sonoko-San took a long minute to look him over. Tom waited awkwardly not quite sure what was expected of him. Occasionally, Ms. Sonoko-San flipped through a thin file that sat on her cluttered desk. After another minute, she leaned back in what must have been a thousand-dollar Aeon Office flex-chair, crossed her legs at the knees, and smiled. 

"Very well, Tomoya-Kun, you'll do. I think you'll do just fine. How would you like a new assignment?"

“A new assignment? But I’m already currently working on promoting _Emoji Movie: The Sequel._” A part of Tom’s soul died each time he said this aloud.

“Ah yes, the emoticon that launched a thousand ships,” said Ms. Sonoko-San waving her hand dismissively. It was clear from her expression that she held this American project in platonic contempt, a moronic endeavor that spoke volumes about American taste and sophistication.

“The original grossed over $100 million, domestically,” added Tom weakly.

Ms. Sonoko-San stood suddenly, up from behind her desk and slammed both her palms down against the desk. Loose-leaf papers flew every which way.

“Do you know why you we hired you, Tomoya-Kun?” she demanded to know, leaning over Tom. A dangerous glint danced in her eyes. “Why we selected _you_ from an applicant pool of _thousands_?”

Tom gulped, shrinking backwards into his sofa. “….for my scintillating wit and intellect?”

_“As if!” _(From outside, Tom heard the muffled sounds of water being choked upon.)

“You were chosen,” Ms. Sonoko-San continued, slipping off her high-heels, “because of all of the thousands of applicants who applied, you were the _only_ American who dared to list _“reader of manga”_ and _“watcher of anime”_ on your resume!”

It’s true– Tom had indeed done this.

“And so for your audacity in so publicly professing your undying love for the greatest artistic medium in human history, for being willing to stand by your convictions, _we decided to choose you._” By this point, Ms. Sonoko-San had climbed up atop her desk in her stockings and was shaking her fist at some imaginary god in the sky, apparently just beyond the vaulted office ceiling tiles. It was clear that a torrent of overwhelming Japanese pride coursed through her; Tom saw this much in his absolute terror.

Eventually, Ms. Sonoko-San came out of the sudden patriotic fervor that had so gripped her and climbed back down from off her desk, offering Tom her sincerest and most profound of apologies as she bowed deeply, multiple times. Tom had been in such a dazed shock that he’d simply accepted his new assignment. After leaving Ms. Sonoko-San’s office, Tom stumbled straight past his cubicle and climbed up the stairs up to the office rooftop. This was where he’d visit whenever he found himself confused. Lately, it was a place he’d been visiting often.

Burko-kun, the office cat who’d accidentally stolen away in Ms. Sonoko-San’s luggage, was waiting for him on rooftop. Tom grabbed a box of biscuits out from beneath the overhang and tossed a treat to the poor cat who was half-a-world away from home. Burko-kun leapt and devoured the biscuit hungrily before settling into Tom’s arms; Tom sat on the edge of air-conditioning unit, his feet dangling over the ledge. He stroked Burko-kun behind the ears and stared off into orange horizon across the city skyline. A closeted Otaku and accidental office cat transplant, together, on an office building roof in the middle of midtown.

“Oh buddy,” said Tom softly, “what are we going to do?”

Burko-kun purred.

* * *

In time, Tom had learned to let go of childish things. He was now an adult; he had a job; rented an apartment; had student loans; paid the bills. He was no longer a child and so he had boxed up his volumes and volumes of manga. He’d traded his glasses for contacts. And he’d gone through all of the motions to properly play the part.

He had held out for as long as he could with his _Final Fantasy X _poster wall scrolls, and his Japanese imported figurines of scantily clad women from all of his favorite TV shows, and he had held out longer than most. Much longer. But the truth was –the deepest truth that Tom _knew_ in his heart of hearts, that no one else knew– was that it **_hadn’t been_** the world which had finally broken him. That is, western society with its Anglocentric, hypocritical notions of gender norms and political correctness. It hadn’t been that Tom had been mercilessly beaten to his last breath until he’d finally submitted. It was the truth he’d told himself in his darkest nights. But that wasn’t the _honest_ truth.

The honest truth was simply that Tom had given up.

After two decades of relentless teasing and bullying, of smirks and stares, of people smiling to his face but then thinking him a grotesque pervert behind his back who enjoyed watching underaged, barely dressed _middle-school girls _frolicking about on beaches in weird Japanese cartoons– after twenty years of that, Tom had simply thrown in the towel, raised the white flag, and unequivocally surrendered.

For twenty years, Tom had followed his own north star. He’d been true to himself. He’d not succumbed to peer pressure. And he’d dared to think different.

In the pouring rain, he’d been the sole member of his high school anime and manga club– trying to pass out soggy pamphlets and leaflets to anyone who would join. Not a single classmate had even dared make eye contact.

In college, there Tom had been at it again, at the extracurricular festival day, his Anime and Manga club booth stuck between the Gothic Film Horror and Aspiring Burlesque Art booths– both had garnered more new members by the day’s end than his own, which had of course accrued a grand total of zero.

At every turn, he’d been met with merciless derision. In college, the bullies were gone, but they had been replaced with something infinitely worse: A soul-crushing silence that won in a single moment or day, but a rejection that quietly, calmly, methodically, destroyed Tom over endless weeks that turned into months that turned into years.

In the endless amounts of anime that Tom had watched during his youth, the unremarkable loser geek male protagonist was often pursued by not just the smartest, most beautiful girl in class, **_but also_** the endearing childhood friend was, not always, but usually, a _tsundere_ character– a character who was initially cold and distant on the outside but inside possessed incredible warmth and affection.

In reality, there had been none of that. _It’d all been a load of lies!_ The girls and women that Tom met in life all **_stayed_** cold– not a single one ever displayed towards him a change of heart or hint of warmth.

In the sixth grade, Tom had either the insight or stupidity to have his fortune read at the circus by an old lady. For five dollars, he’d gotten his tarot cards dealt and the words of the old, wrinkled woman, hunched over a wrapped in layers and layers, had never left him: _“You are a feeler, Tomas. And you are determined, beyond all reason. But this just means your wounds will be the most severe. Those who feel most strongly are those who will be hurt most deeply.”_

Those words, from the old fortune teller, had never left Tom. And to this day, the wounds he’d endured all through childhood, all through adolescence, all through college– they’d stayed with him. And now, two decades later, they’d finally scarred over– but they’d also left him numb.

* * *

> _“The world is beautiful not because it is perfect, but because it is human.”_


End file.
